


In the Nursery

by ceresilupin



Series: Akhmatova Series [1]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceresilupin/pseuds/ceresilupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snippet from Gregor's childhood. Part of a series of ficlets inspired by Anna Akhmatova's poetry, mainly Northern Elegies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Nursery

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В детской](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7226350) by [Russian_Fic_Store](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russian_Fic_Store/pseuds/Russian_Fic_Store)



> 'In the Nursery' is the title of the quoted poem, by Anna Akhmatova.

_Moorka, don't go, see the owl  
Embroidered on the pillow,  
Moorka gray, don't purr,  
Grandfather will hear.  
Nanny, the candle's not burning,  
And the mice are scratching.  
I'm afraid of that owl,  
Why did they embroider him?_

 

He really was _tiny._

Fascinated, Gregor stood on tiptoe to peer into Miles's crib.  Lord Vorkosigan and Lady Cordelia had just brought him home a couple days ago, and this was the five-year-old Emperor's first chance to inspect his new foster brother.  Miles Naismith Vorkosigan was smaller than one of his teddy bears, had fuzzy dark hair capping his round head, and slept curled in a ball.

After a quick, backwards glance to make sure no one had noticed his departure -- he'd only gone down the hall, it wasn't too bad, right?  And the door was open!  Drou was at the reception with Lady Cordelia, so getting away had been really easy -- Gregor unfastened the latch of the crib and pushed it aside.  His hand, he found, was the size of Miles's whole chest.  The sleeping baby mewled at the light touch, but didn't wake.

 _Weird.  He even has fingernails!_   Gregor leaned in close to look at them.  _And toenails!_   Fascinated, he tickled Miles's foot gently, just to watch him flail his little arms.  Baby Ivan, Lady Vorpatril's son, was much bigger and fatter.  Gregor wondered if that was because Ivan was older, or because of the saltox . . . soltax . . . soltoxin damage.

A sound in the hall startled him.  Quick as thought, he shut the crib and ducked into the closet, his heart hammering in his throat, so hard it hurt.  Who was it -- the guards, Lady Cordelia, more soldiers come to kill him -- or Miles --

It was just Count Vorkosigan.

Strangely unreassured, Gregor watched the old man approach Miles's crib.  The Council of Counts had met at Vorhartung Castle earlier that day, and a banquet with dancing had been held at the Residence afterwards, in celebration of some bill or other.  Gregor had greeted them with Lady Cordelia, before she took him back to his room and tucked him in.  His Mama would have let him stay, but he liked Lady Cordelia anyway.

Gregor Lady Cordelia telling Lord Vorkosigan that Piotr Vorkosigan would not, "under any terms, ever", be allowed near their son again.  And Lord Vorkosigan had agreed tiredly, before spotting Gregor and summoning him over with a smile.

It was like something in a holovid -- a bad holovid, a scary one that his Mama had never let him watch.  With a look at the door to make sure it was shut, Count Vorkosigan slid the pillow from beneath Miles's tiny head.  He said something under his breath, a low rumble that didn't make it to Gregor's ears, and started to lower it --

"No!"

Count Vorkosigan jumped and spun, one hand going to the nerve disrupter on his belt.  The shock on his face -- as he found the boy Emperor lurking in the closet -- was almost funny.

The pillow fell from his suddenly stiff fingers.  His other hand flew away from the nerve disrupter.  "Sire," the Count said, suddenly the color of oatmeal, or old milk.  "What are you. . . ."

Frightened, on the verge of tears, Gregor ran past the scary old man and checked on the baby.  Miles hadn't even twitched.

Gregor looked up and found the Count staring at him.  His head was spinning, he was so frightened, he hadn't even been so frightened when he was taken from Mama; maybe because, only now, did he understand what to be frightened _of._   It didn't matter that Piotr was a Count.  Vordarian had been a Count, too. . . .

He clutched the crib rail in both hands.  "Go away," he said, voice weak and scared to his own ears.

"Sire," Count Vorkosigan said, sounding almost as helpless as Gregor himself.  In the hall came sudden raised voices, and Gregor knew he'd been missed.

"Go away," Gregor said again, louder.  "You won't -- you won't hurt him," and he remembered -- he had a weapon.  Lord Vorkosigan had told him so.  He straightened and said, as forcefully as he could, "I request and require it _._ "

The Count's eyes widened.  His gaze was glued to Gregor's face and he seemed confused.  When he stepped back it had the air of a retreat.

The guards came bursting in a moment later, having tracked Gregor by the seal he wore around his throat.  They found the Emperor by the crib, Miles's dark little head resting on its pillow, and Count Vorkosigan hovering by the door.  The old man made a few weak excuses and was escorted out by Sergeant Bothari, the only one who seemed to know what was going on.

In the hall, the Count paused and glanced back.  Who Gregor reminded him of, and what he thought of the hazel eyes staring relentlessly into his soul, he never did say.


End file.
